The Dress
by myInfirmary
Summary: Ichabod can't believe that Abbie has dresses, so she shows him that she does. ONLY read this if you're super bored and have no better story to read. It's Ichabod and Abbie, but only a fraction. Basically, it was an impulsive write, so it's drab. Again, read at your own risk.


**So, I am in this dry spell, uninspired by anything and I've just been so bored, and wanting to read new fics, but nothing new has surfaced. With this fic, I hope to inspire people out of their dry spells, because when you read a bad fic, all you want to do is correct the mistakes, and create a better one, so this is my aim. I admit, that this fic is BAD times a thousand, but I just got so tired of not seeing new fics that I tried something in the moment. I did warn that it isn't good, so don't blame me for anything. People please, I beg you, please write new fics, I'm dying here, or at least update your fics, I need to read fics. Please, thanks. And this might sound a lot like The Jeans, so apology in advance. Forgive me for the mistakes.**

'You own a dress?'

His surprise at her revelation is nothing compared to her reaction of his shock. Her eyebrows shoot right past her forehead to her hairline, Ichabod never imagined eyebrows could raise that high. Perhaps he could've tried not to sound so surprised, but to be fair, he's only ever seen her in trousers. The thought that she owned traditional women wear, not once entered his mind in all the time he's known her. But apparently, she does.

'Why wouldn't I have a dress?' she challenges, arms folding across her.

That's a rather silly question to ask, he thinks, because she's never worn a dress in his presence, and so he assumed that she didn't like dresses.

'I've never seen you in one,' he says, trying very hard not to sound defensive.

'And when exactly, please say, I am supposed to wear a dress?'

He's not going to mention it to her-because now she looks ready to tackle him if he says one incorrect thing-but Katrina always wore a dress. Besides, women are supposed to wear dresses. Even as he thinks that, he realises that theirs was a different era, and well, Katrina is-or was-Katrina, and she didn't own trousers.

He chooses his words carefully, 'I'm merely pointing out, that your constant state of dress in jeans, as you refer to them, has led me to believe that you own only such garments.'

Abbie's arms unfold, and she takes a step to him, 'And I'm asking, where between police work and hunting evil should I wear a dress?'

'No need for such a tone with me,' he tells her, slightly offended by her tone. Abbie only rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. He knows that means she has to prove her point to him. Normally, he doesn't mind when she demonstrates what she means by her words, but right now, he has the feeling that he won't like what she'll do.

'Stay here,' she says before turning and disappearing into the hallway.

Ichabod is left alone in her sitting room. He's rarely here inside her home, it was always her, getting him at the cabin, her, picking him up. It was never, them getting something she forgot at home, or them coming back from a long day to her home to relax and breathe. Except some rare days, like today when she really doesn't have the option of leaving him behind while she got something. He likes it inside her home, it is very her, the part of her that she doesn't allow the rest of the world to see. He's glad she's chosen to change first (into a dress apparently), before they head to the reception. This way, he can learn a little more about her.

He begins to look around, picking items up and examining them for the sake of knowledge. Fortunately, she doesn't mind him touching anything of hers as long as he doesn't break any of what he touches.

Five minutes or so into waiting, he hears the shuffling of feet. Knowing that Abbie is returning, his stomach drops slightly, because he's a little worried for what she's going to do. He turns around to the direction she disappeared to, waiting for her to appear.

'So,' her voice reaches him before he sees her come from the hallway. Automatically, he starts to think up answers to give her when she starts to say whatever she's going to say to him.

'How do I look?' Abbie finally comes into his line of vision.

She's not at all what he was expecting, he had been expecting to see her as she left, but with more defensive words.

This, what he's looking at, isn't the Abbie he knows, he doesn't even recognise her. If they weren't in her home, he would think she were someone different altogether.

And he certainly isn't seeing a dress either. The definition of 'dress' that he knows is; puffy and broad, with little to no precise detail, nothing like he's seeing right now. Material clinging to the body, the outlining of every part of a woman...no, this isn't a dress he's looking at.

'Hey!' Abbie waves a hand to get his attention. They are at least a metre apart, but he feels as though there isn't breathing room between them, he feels like he's losing his breath, his supply of air.

'Hmm?!' he snaps out of his world quickly, realising that he's been staring at her, measuring her in the thing she calls a dress.

'How do I look?' she asks, her arms stretching out on her sides to allow him a better look.

'How do you look?'

He isn't sure if that is a trick question or if it's an actual enquiry, either way, he doesn't want to answer, for fear of saying the wrong thing. He can in no way tell her that it feels as though he's seeing her for the very first time, as though he's only now realising that she's a woman. More aptly, a gorgeous woman, in every sense of the word, and more.

'Yes,' she takes three steps to him, 'How do I look?'

Ichabod swallows, if he thought he didn't have enough air before, he's two seconds from dying now. It feels to him like he's seeing her in her natural born state.

'Am I supposed to answer that?' he tries to keep his voice from betraying him, though he's not sure he succeeds when Abbie's eyes narrow and her lips purse.

'No, you're supposed to have my question for breakfast. Of course Crane, you're supposed to answer the question.' Her voice isn't angry, but she's close to being annoyed with him, he can tell. He wishes she wouldn't stand so close to him, it's not helping at all. Not a little.

'Well, I...' he begins to say, but his eyes find her bare shoulders, and he doesn't find words anymore. Her skin looks so...so smooth and inviting to be touched. Where were these dresses in his time? And who is the genius who thought of them? He certainly knew what he'd be seeing when he thought them up.

'You see what I mean?' she breaks his thoughts, bringing him to focus on her face again.

'About?' his curiosity gets the better of him.

'Imagine me running from demons in this,' she turns around slowly so that he can get a view of her back too.

Ichabod nearly jumps away when he sees her exposed back. Dresses have really evolved over the centuries. The inventor of such dresses must've had purely selfish reasons.

'I can't imagine you would be able to run,' he mutters in disapproval, not for her not being able to run though.

'Exactly,' she turns back abruptly, 'So the next time you decide to think that I don't have a dress, remember that all my dresses look like this.'

'Surely, not all.' The statement is for his own private collection of knowledge, because in this very moment, he very much likes to think that all of her dresses are that appealing on her.

'All,' she pulls the word, a little smile in her voice.

'How...' he wants his mouth to say 'shocking', but his mind only has one word, 'pleasing'.

'Different right? From what you're used to?'

That too, but no, not what he was going to say. Instead of lying, he only tilts his head to the side.

'Too bad,' she says, 'you'll have to see me in this all night. I'm not going to Irving's Renewing of Vows wearing jeans. Suck it up.'

Before he can reply, she's turned away from him (her back once again exposed to him) and is walking away, stopping a few steps away and turning back, 'Give me ten more minutes, I still have to do my make-up and find shoes.'

He doesn't care about the make-up or the shoes she's talking about, his worry is how he'll get through the night with her looking like that. And more worrisome, how he'll ever stop seeing her that way, even when she's in jeans, how will he ever unremember her in that dress?


End file.
